Rancor
by pharo
Summary: Resentment runs deep.


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Rancor

Author: Pharo

Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to ABC, Bad Robot, and JJ Abrams.

Summary: Resentment runs deep.

Spoilers: "The Telling."

Feedback: pharo@newyork.com

You run a hand through your hair, still slightly cold as a result of the combination of your morning shower and car air conditioning. You left your own house at six in the morning, driving around the city with the intent of forgetting the morning call from the CIA – forgetting what you had to tell a man that you once called your best friend. The half–hour drive to Vaughn's house – you had made the same trip years ago when it had been a weekly ritual and circumstances had been different – has stretched to two hours. Now, you finally gather the strength to turn the corner and knock on the familiar wooden door.

"Eric?" he asks when opening the door, squinting as he wipes the sleep off his eyes. 

"Mike," you say solemnly.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

He moves away from the door to usher you in.

"I need to talk to you," you say quickly.

"It's a little early, you know?"

You nod.

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't important."

He frowns at this because both of you know that it is the truth. The friendship long disintegrated into a casual acquaintance and a few memories thrown into the back of your closet amidst hockey sticks and baseball bats.

"Alice is sleeping so…"

"This won't take long," you promise.

He tries to read the expression on your face, but you have long learned how to mask your feelings.

"It's about Sydney," you say quickly, wanting to get the whole thing over with. "She's – there's no easy way to say this."

"Just tell me."

"She's gone. They got word last night and called me this morning to tell me," you babble before taking a deep breath. "I thought it'd be better if I tell you before…you know."

"What are you saying?" he asks in a low whisper.

"Sydney is dead," you tell him once more, this time with more conviction.

"What? No, I don't believe it," Vaughn insists adamantly.

You can tell that he's stifling the urge to grab you by the throat and shake a retraction out of you, but he just looks at you with an expression of disbelief. His eyes are frantic, moving from one corner of the room to another, as if searching for an alternative explanation to your motives for visiting him in couch cushions and wall paintings.

"Look—" you start to say before he raises a hand. 

"No, that's crazy, Eric! I won't believe it. Not for a second."

"I know you don't want to acknowledge that—"

"This is bull. Utter bull," he repeats with a chuckle and you know now that he's not listening to you anymore. "How do we know this is even her?"

"Mike, I wouldn't be telling you this if it weren't true," you say, softer now. He was a friend once and despite everything, you feel that you owe it to him to show some compassion. "The agency is sure."

He laughs at this.

"The agency? Oh well, in that case…it's not like they've ever lied to us before."

"This is different."

"What makes you so sure? You think I believe the agency? After what they did to her life—"

"She chose that path, Mike," you interrupt, "and you know it."

"What the hell are you doing defending them, Eric?" he asks in anger. "After they almost got you killed—"

You close your eyes and sigh. You should have known that he would bring that up the first chance he got. You used to think that he truly believed that the CIA was responsible, but you soon realized that it was nothing more than another reason to justify his departure from the agency.

He resents the agency. You resent the fact that he can drop it all at the tip of hat and leave. Years ago, you had asked him why he decided to join and he told you with such deep conviction that he didn't want another kid losing his father to an arms dealer trading lives for dirty little secrets. And then she was gone and he packed up his life into a little cardboard box and walked out. 

"Trust me, that wasn't a fun moment in my life either, but if you remember, it was a part of the job that we set out to do."

"God, you're like a walking recruitment ad for the CIA," he says in disgust.

You hear the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

"Michael, who are you talking to?"

Her voice is the same as you remember it. For the most part, she hasn't changed over the year. The only difference you can detect is that her hair has gotten longer and her eyes look a little brighter.

"Eric Weiss, I'll be damned." she says with a grin. You remember that she had always been fond of magic and used your full name any chance she got.

"How've you been, Alice?" you ask.

"Just fine now that you're here," she replies. "It's been a couple of years, hasn't it?"

"Wait now, we saw each other in the frozen foods aisle at Robbie's a while back, remember?"

She nods.

"So Houdini, what brings you back to visit your old friends?"

You notice that Mike winces at the word.

"I was in the neighborhood and I remembered that you made a mean cup of coffee."

She laughs.

"You're still such a bad liar," she says and you think of how wrong she is. "I can take a hint, Eric. Just don't try and lure my husband back into the banking world again, alright? I kind of like having him around."

"I can't imagine why," you say with a smile.

"Always the funny man," Mike adds and for a second, you let yourself believe that nothing has changed.

You wait until you hear the sink turn on in the kitchen before turning back to Mike.

"Hey, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve all that," he apologizes. "I just can't believe it, you know?"

"I'm sorry too."

"Did you tell Will Tippin yet?"

"No, you're the first person I thought to go to," you say. "Besides, Kendall said that Will was there when they found out."

He mutters a curse under his breath and that shocks you. The Michael Vaughn that you knew only cursed when he was drunk out of his mind or scared as hell and this occasion counted as neither.

"I have to go," you say, glancing at your watch.

"What?" he asks, pulled out of his revere. "No, stay for awhile. You can have breakfast with us."

You shake your head.

"No, no. I really have to go. I should've been at work five minutes ago," you lie.

"Eric," he says causing you to turn around, "thanks for letting me know."

The gratitude in his voice rings in your ears and for a second, you feel a pang of guilt for giving up one of the best friendships you've had.

"I'll see you around," you say quickly before leaving his house.


End file.
